


Coward and a Whoreson

by Nebulad



Series: Mien'harel [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, F/M, First Meetings, Fluff, M/M, Other, Suicide mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-03
Updated: 2016-08-03
Packaged: 2018-07-29 00:42:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7663480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nebulad/pseuds/Nebulad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Warden was yet another problem, come to think of it. Zevran fancied himself as cold as ice on the inside, a proper stone man with nothing left but an empty vessel forced to endlessly wander. After Rinna… her death was on his hands and Taliesen acted as if he didn’t care at all, and after days of feeling like screaming or bashing his head against a wall or something to try and make the man see what he’d lost, to try and get him to reach out because Zevran had never felt so alone… he’d settled comfortably into nothing.</p><p>Tabris was <i>something</i> and it <i>grated</i> on him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coward and a Whoreson

In retrospect, the assassin wasn’t supposed to survive.

Surprisingly, both the Warden _and_ the assassin were mulling this over before the fire, avoiding eye contact with one another studiously. Gahruil wasn’t gunna try and pretend like they’d wanted the Crow to live, or even been particularly curious about why he was there. Morrigan had been minutely impressed with their strategy, merely knocking him out so he could be questioned. _T’was no surprise that the villain was once again Loghain, but that you of all people meant to interrogate the Crow is… surprisingly well thought,_ she’d conceded.

Truthfully, Tabris had swung back and Zevran’s head had simply been in a fortuitous place, all things considered. They’d brained him with the butt of their sword, he’d fallen like a sack of cement dropped from the top of the battlements, and Gahruil had figured… well, whatever. If he wasn’t dead, he wasn’t getting up any time soon either. Sten would sweep up.

Zevran, on the other hand, was wondering just how unlucky one man could be without dying. His head _ached_ still from the blow he had taken— an inch lower and he might have actually died, but no. The Maker wanted him alive, perhaps to torment him further. The headache was merely a sharp reminder that suicide was supposedly a sin, no matter how the sinner tried to set the stage.

Loghain’s men had been an annoyance. The Warden travelled with one other Warden, a Qunari, a Witch, and a Hound; surely that would be more than enough to kill him. The Qunari could probably manage before Zevran even caught sight of the fabled Grey Order, but the frowning fellow in the fleabitten capital had insisted that one man was not enough. _They survived Ostagar, they’ll survive a surprise attack from a man with two knives._

Insult to injury— sabotage his plans and insult his skill. It was really a poor day for him all around, and he was fairly certain that joining this foolish Blight hunt had been a bad idea as well. Certainly he wished for death and with the concussion he’d been sporting it had seemed a wonderful alternative to having to brace himself to have his throat slit. _That_ was what had deterred him— he wanted a _fast_ death because he was a terrible coward. He didn’t want to see it coming, no matter how good Tabris seemed to be with their swords.

The Warden was yet another problem, come to think of it. Zevran fancied himself as cold as ice on the inside, a proper stone man with nothing left but an empty vessel forced to endlessly wander. After Rinna… her death was on his hands and Taliesen acted as if he didn’t care at all, and after days of feeling like screaming or bashing his head against a wall or _something_ to try and make the man see what he’d lost, to try and get him to reach out because Zevran had never felt so alone… he’d settled comfortably into nothing.

Tabris was _something_ and it _grated_ on him.

They were quiet— an understatement as they never spoke— and uncertain, the leader albeit unwillingly. They were an Alienage street rat, knowing nothing but their tightly packed slum of a home. He doubted they could read, and they had dirt under their fingernails and their lank red hair pulled back out of their face.

Gahruil Tabris was… _something._ He couldn’t place what made them so, but they were— and after hours of glaring at the fire, they approached him finally. Well, _approach_ may have been a strong word— they shifted over to sit next to him, still scowling at the fire.

 _If you’re gunna try to kill me again then do me a favour and just get it over with,_ they signed without looking at him. They must have been able to hear— everyone else did very little signing when speaking with them— so he didn’t trouble himself with trying to translate his signs at the same time as his words. Speaking Common so often was exhausting.

“I told you my dear Warden, I have no further plans to assassinate you,” he assured them. It didn’t seem to work as well as he’d hoped, but it made no real difference. He was not there to make friends, and the more they wanted to kill him, the better.

 _Why did you ask to come along, if you don’t plan to finish the job?_ He supposed they couldn’t take his word that the Crows disdained a sloppy job— he would gain no reward from slaying them in the second round, had he even been seeking such a thing.

“Perhaps I am simply weak for suicide missions.” And a coward. “Or you hit me harder than either of us know.”

 _How’s your head?_ It made no sense for them to ask, but he was beginning to suspect _they_ were not free of motive in letting him stay with the group. He’d noticed that the elf to human ratio was staggeringly uneven, and for someone from an Alienage… unacceptable, perhaps. _Andraste_ they made themself easy to kill, if someone had the inclination. If Rinna were alive and Taliesen not a man more stone than Zevran, then perhaps they might have finished this contract together and become Masters.

Unlikely, but he only hurt himself in daydreaming.

“It feels remarkably like I have recently taken a blow to the head,” he said wryly. “Hopefully the bruising does not mar my good looks.”

He didn’t expect Gahruil to lift themself into his lap, their sturdy body simply hanging there while they brushed back his hair and looked at the spot they’d hit. Morrigan, the witch, had done a perfunctory healing that she’d clearly not wanted to perform— perhaps she had missed a fracture or a bruise. _Maybe say something next time you’re hurt. I don’t read minds,_ they groused.

“How else would I tempt you so close?” He surprised himself, a little. Perhaps Gahruil’s _something_ was the last of his libido demanding satisfaction— he didn’t think so, but neither had he planned to flirt. A coward _and_ a whoreson. Go figure.

Gahruil flung themself backwards so sharply that they were only saved from the fire by Zevran’s hand at the last moment. The rest of the camp roused itself briefly, just in time to see Tabris snatch their arm away from him and scramble away into their tent.

The hound followed shortly, which took care of the only two in camp willing to speak with him. Truly an auspicious start, but as he tried to remind himself, he was here to die. The in between would simply have to be boring.

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm doing zevwarden week and doing it badly so buckle up kiddos the next seven days are dedicated to my husband. [My writing blog is here](http://nebulaad.tumblr.com) so you can get hot and ready zev and gary on ur doorstep.


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